


The Werewolves of Millers Hollow

by WriterX



Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: Alternate Universe - Werewolf, Christmas, Christmas Party, Crack, Crack Treated Seriously, F/F, F/M, Gen, M/M, Mild Gore, Multi, Not Really Character Death, Party Games
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2014-12-29
Updated: 2015-01-06
Packaged: 2018-03-04 05:42:35
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 12
Words: 6,705
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/2954366
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/WriterX/pseuds/WriterX
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>It was Christmas Eve, and all through the house, not a creature was stirring.<br/>Except for the four werewolves trying to kill everyone.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. In Which Millers Hollow Proves To Be A Poor Living Investment

There was once a small village by the name of Millers Hollow. It was a quaint little town. A mere population of seventeen. They thrived on their agriculture – corn and pumpkins mostly. Although most members weren’t afraid to pop to the next town over for a run at the Wal-Mart.

It was an American village. Even though all the members of the village were English – save for the beautiful Irene Adler, who was American.

Late one evening, a messenger arrived from the county council. With a solemn nod of the head, the messenger placed a scroll into the hands of Millers Hollow’s sheriff – Greg Lestrade.

With the message delivered, the messenger high-tailed it out of there, kicking up a roar of dust like the Wiley-Coyote cartoon.

With all the villagers gathered, Sheriff Greg Lestrade unrolled the scroll, and read the decree.

“Dear villagers of Millers Hollow,” Greg Lestrade read. “It is with great trepidation, that I send to you this message. It has come to our attention that your little village has been infested with werewolves.”

A murmur went up amoung the villagers. Werewolves? Here? In Millers Hollow? How could such a thing be possible?

Sheriff Greg Lestrade raised a hand and drew silence from the crowd. He continued to read. “Our sources have spotted four werewolves living amoung you. It is to our understanding that they mean to wipe out your whole town, and then continue onto our county. Unless you put an end to the werewolves, we will have no choice but to burn your whole village to the ground. You have a fortnight. Signed, the members of the city council.”

The silence of the crowd broke when the Sheriff rolled the scroll up. It was an outrage! How dare the city council accuse four of their own, honest, hard-working villagers of being such foul creatures such as werewolves? How could any of them have become werewolves? It was too horrid a thing to even think about! But if nothing was done – then they could all be killed!

“Now, now,” Sheriff Greg Lestrade urged. “Let’s not get too up in arms about this. It’s late at night; everyone has worked their hardest today. Why not everyone return to their homes, get a good nights sleep, and we’ll meet back here to talk about it tomorrow?”

With the Sheriff’s words, all seventeen members of Millers Hollow retreated to their beds.

 

* * *

 

 

That night, a full moon rose in the night sky. A chill autumn breeze flung open every window shutter – but not a soul awoke.

Not a soul, save for the four werewolves.

Together, the werewolves gathered at a hill atop Millers Hollow, and they howled at the moon together. Howl after howl descended upon the town, where the four werewolves stole and chose their first victim.

From their bed, the Fortune Teller of Millers Hollow awakened, the hair on the back of their neck standing up. They heard the howls and felt a bone chilling fear sweep over their limbs. Quickly, the Fortune Teller made their way to the magical crystal ball hidden in the most secret alcove of their house – for none of the other villagers knew about the magic the Fortune Teller possessed. And the Fortune Teller wanted to keep it that way.

The Fortune Teller spun their fingers around the blue orb, and from within the wispy depths, the Fortune Teller learned the true identity of one of the seventeen villagers.

From a deep sleep, the Witch of Millers Hollow awakened. A chill fell upon their toes, and in front of their eyes they saw the visage of the poor soul to be destroyed by werewolves upon that night. The Witch knew that they only had two potions left in their cupboard, and no ingredients to make more. Like the Fortune Teller, none of the other villagers knew about the Witch’s secret potions – and the Witch didn’t want anyone to find out.

One of the potions the Witch had was a healing potion – it would put a stopper on death. Save a critically wounded person from ascending into the beyond.

The other potion contained a most potent poison. It could kill a man in three seconds flat. A werewolf would probably only take five.

Upon seeing the visage of the person doomed to die that night, the Witch made the decision to save their potions, and fell back into a deep sleep.

And so the night passed.


	2. In Which Sometimes Government Affiliations End Up Making You Dog Chow

Dawn arose with a frightful chill in the air. Everyone who opened their eyes on the day, opened their eyes with the knowledge that four of their friends and colleagues were werewolves.

A shrill scream pierced through the village. At once, everyone was up and out of their beds and rushing towards the sound.

Soon, everyone was crowded around old Mrs. Hudson as she stared at the ground, her finger trembling as it pointed.

A gasp came from the crowd. On the ground, there was a body. The body had been torn to shreds – an arm ripped off, gashes in the stomach and chunks of a leg missing in a small puddle of blood.

And there was no mistaking the identity of Mycroft Holmes.


	3. In Which The Fourth Wall Is Rubbish And You The Reader Find Out The Reason For The Strangeness of This Fanfiction

“I’m dead?” Mycroft shouted, throwing his plain villager card down on the table in a huff. “That’s a load of rubbish, I’m out before the game even really starts!

“That’s what you get for taking a second helping of mashed potatoes.” Sherlock muttered under his breath, rolling his eyes at his brother.

“Whoever is the fucking Witch, I’m going to kill you for not saving me!” Mycroft promised.

“Mycroft, come on, don’t be upset.” Victor stood from his seat around the living room to stand next to the sulking man. He gently placed a hand on the government official’s shoulder. “Someone has to be the first person to die. That’s how the game ‘The Werewolves of Millers Hollow’ is played.”

Mycroft sulked, and someone else laughed. Eighteen people sat in various spots around the apartment 221B Baker Street. Lights decorated the walls, mistletoe hung in the doorways, and a ‘Merry Christmas’ banner hung across the windows.

Anthea sat at the end of the couch beside her boss, Mycroft Holmes, her player card tucked under her thigh, and her fingers every busy away at the keyboard of her phone. Her eyes didn’t lift from the black device, and she would have appeared without the holiday spirit if it weren’t for her ugly red sweater with pine trees sewn on.

Sally Donovan occupied a spot at the kitchen table, looking stunning in a tight sparkly gold dress, with little diamond earrings attached to her lobes. She drank champagne from a glass that looked like her – priceless and thrilled to be invited.

James Moriarty sat in a loveseat at the window, on the lap of Sebastian Moran. Both men were dressed in Westwood suits, though only Sebastian thought to wear a tie with any sort of semblance to the Winter Holiday (blue with white snowflakes decorating it).

Clara and Harry Watson sat in a loveseat opposite the criminals – currently on again for the holiday season. Harry was without a drink – having promised her brother that she would refrain from the luxury in order to obtain her 30-sobriety chip upon her return from the holiday vacation. Clara was also without a drink, in order to encourage her loving partner. And both women looked lovely in yellow and pink sundresses respectively.

The lovely Irene Adler sat at the kitchen table next to Sally Donovan, trying her hand at the snacks set out on the table. She fluttered her long eyelashes at anyone looking every time she popped a grape into her mouth. Her outfit would normally put the prettiest girl in the house to shame, however, being the wonderful Queen that Irene Adler is, she opted for something a little subtler to pay her respects to her fellow women.

John Watson and Sherlock Holmes, of course, occupied their usual seats, looking as charming and dashing as usual – especially since a one Doctor Watson had managed to convince a certain consulting detective to wear one hilarious appearing reindeer antlers.

Greg Lestrade sat on the other side of Mycroft Holmes, nervously fidgeting, as Molly Hooper sits on his other side, looking absolutely stunning in a tight black dress and dancing snowmen earrings. She sips on a little bubbly champagne, looking thrilled to be sitting next to the DI. Greg tugs a little on his red tie, sparing Mycroft a warm pat on the thigh as an apology for his early exit in the game.

Philip Anderson sat with Sally Donovan and Irene Adler at the kitchen table, tasting various different little snacks.

Mrs. Hudson bustled back and forth between various seats. First she would get up to get some tea, then to get some crackers, then to pass crackers onto someone else, then to get up and quickly get the phone, and come back to play the game, and always complained about her hip.

Mary Morstan sat on the arm of John Watson’s chair, her belly bulging with the life she carried with her these late months. She nibbled on a chocolate chip cookie.

Sarah and Janine sat by the fireplace, letting their toes warm from the cold outside, as they talked quietly with each other, feeling sort of outcast from the group.

Victor Trevor patted Mycroft’s arm one more time, and then made his way back to the middle of the living room, sitting with great glee upon his chair in which he was the moderator for the game. Christmas had never been brighter for him.

“Alright,” Victor declared, drawing everyone’s attention away from their side conversations and back to him. “Is everyone ready to continue playing the game?”

Nods came from the crowd.

Victor smiled. “Remember, once you have been killed you must remain silent for the rest of the game. You are welcome to leave your seat and help yourself to snacks or tea, but otherwise you may keep your eyes open. While everyone else is “asleep” with their eyes closed, you’re obviously not allowed to reveal to the other players who the werewolves and special players are while they momentarily have their eyes open during the “night”. Got it? Any last questions?”

“How do we win again?” Molly asked, after raising her hand and blushing.

“If you’re a villager, your goal is to kill all the werewolves. So every night the werewolves will kill one person, and during the day, everyone as a village must decide upon one person they will lynch or hang or shoot in an effort to kill the werewolves. So you win if you kill all the werewolves. If you’re a werewolf, your goal is to kill all the villagers. Understand?” Victor smiled at her and Molly nodded her head.

“Sorry, will you just go over all the special cards again?” Greg asked, following Molly suit with a smile in her direction. “Everyone know I’m the Sheriff, but we don’t know who any of the other special people are?”

“Correct.” Victor nodded. “Everyone knows you are the Sheriff because that was decided by everyone. Being the Sherriff means that you get two votes and not just one during the day when you all decide to kill a certain person. The other special people are secret, because that is what was on their card. They don’t want to reveal themselves, in case the werewolves decide to destroy them for their advantage.”

“What do they all do again?” Sarah called out.

Victor took a deep breath. Getting everyone organized took a lot of work, and if they wanted to play the game right, going over the rules once or twice was worth it.

“There is the Fortune Teller. During every sleep, they can question the true identity of a fellow player. I, as the moderator, will only let them know if the person they ask about is a werewolf or not.”

“Then there’s the Witch. During every sleep, they can choose to either use their healing potion to save the werewolf victim of the night or use their poison to kill someone they suspect of being a werewolf. They can use both in one night, one or neither, but once a potion has been used they can’t use it again.”

“Then there’s the Hunter. The only way that the Hunter is special, is that if they are killed, they can choose any other person to take down with them.”

“Finally, there’s Cupido. Their identity is never revealed, and is generally not important. What they do, is during the start of the game, when everyone was sleeping, that character picked out two people in the room to be lovers – whom I tapped on the shoulder. That means that in the game, the two characters that are lovers cannot vote each other to be killed, even as a bluff. And if one of the lovers is killed during the night, the other lover must automatically commit suicide. Lovers – you know who you are.”

“Everyone understand?” Victor asked, swivelling to see everyone in the room. Only positive agreement found his sight.

“Then let’s continue.”


	4. In Which Murder Can Be Committed By Those Designed To Stop It

And there was no mistaking the identity of Mycroft Holmes.

“Everyone get away from the body!” Sheriff Greg Lestrade cried, instantly ushering everyone away from the deceased Mycroft Holmes.

Once outside the house, the crowd begins to murmur. A werewolf has killed one of their own. They must find a way to retaliate! They must find a way to avenge the death of Mycroft Holmes!

“I think it was Mrs. Hudson.” Philip Anderson spoke up from the back. “She always comes to give Mycroft his tea late in the night – she had ample time to do it!”

“With this hip I’ve got?” Mrs. Hudson laughed. “Dearie, if I were a werewolf, I would be the saddest excuse of a werewolf there was.”

“Don’t be daft Anderson.” Sherlock drew towards the front of the crowd. “There’s no use in throwing about accusations this early. There are way too many of us. If we try and argue how each and every one of us might be a werewolf, it will do nothing but set everyone up against each other.”

“What do you suggest then?” Sheriff Lestrade asks.

“A volunteer killing.”

A murmur washes over the crowd.

“Someone has to die.” Sherlock goes on to explain. “The less people that are in this town, the better our chances of killing a werewolf get.”

Instantly, everyone is up in arms. You want to just kill people willy nilly? Why don’t we kill you then? Nobody here wants to die! You can’t just sacrifice people!

“We’ll have a vote then.” The Sheriff cries out. “No discussion. Just everyone vote for one person that you think could possibly be a werewolf.”

The suggestion went over well with the crowd.

“On the count of three, point to the person you wish to vote for.”

“One.”

“Two.”

“Three!”

Anthea pointed to Janine.

Sally pointed to Sherlock.

Moriarty pointed to Harry.

Clara pointed to Janine.

Harry pointed to Mary.

Moran pointed to Mary.

John pointed to Moriarty.

Irene pointed to Greg Lestrade.

Sherlock pointed to Janine.

Greg pointed to Sarah.

Anderson pointed to Sally.

Mrs. Hudson pointed to Janine.

Molly pointed to Moriarty.

Mary pointed to Janine.

Sarah pointed to John.

Janine pointed to Anderson.

With five votes all counted towards Janine, Sheriff Lestrade took a gun from its hoister, drew it and fired it once into her chest.

Janine falls to the ground with a gasp. She body thuds on the dirt. Red spills from the bullet wound in her chest. A collective grimace crossed the face of every towns member. Red blood meant human. Werewolves only bled green.

“Well there’s nothing more we can do about it now.” Sheriff Greg Lestrade sighed, putting his gun away. It’s time we get some rest.”

The setting sun in the distance encouraged all the still living residents of Millers Hollow to sleep for the night; all of them knowing that there are only fifteen of them left.


	5. In Which The POV Reveals The Identity of the Witch and the Fortune Teller To Keep The Reader Interested But The Identity of the Wolves Remains A Secret Because The Author is a Dick

“A cold wind blows, and the chill awakens the Fortune Teller.” Victor Trevor had his hands clasped together as he stood in the middle of the room, and his eyes surveyed the Christmas Party guests. “Fortune Teller, open your eyes.”

Harry Watson’s eyes fluttered open. She lifted her head and glanced around the room. Then she locked eyes with Victor Trevor.

Victor Trevor began to walk around the room in a slow circle. “The Fortune Teller retreats to their secret alcove of their house, and finds the blue orb which they may learn the true identity of one of the remaining fifteen villagers.”

He looked towards Harry, continuing to sweep the room in an effort to disguise whom he wanted to direct his words towards.

Harry Watson considered. The previous round, she had asked about her brother John – and she learned that John was not a werewolf. She silently pointed to her current girlfriend, Clara.

Victor Trevor nodded his head, confirming Clara’s identity as a werewolf.

“After consulting with their magical orb, the Fortune Teller returns to their bed, and falls asleep again.” Victor Trevor speaks with his head held high, broadcasting his voice to the rest of the room.

“The nights chill next awakens the Witch.” Victor Trevor smiled, clasping his hands behind his back as he continues to sweep the room. “Witch, please open your eyes.”

John Watson’s eyes carefully opened. He looked up and locked eyes with Victor Trevor. Victor nodded to translate that he understood John was paying attention.

“In front of the Witch’s eyes, they see the visage of the poor soul to be destroyed by werewolves that night.” As Victor Walks, he momentarily held his hand above the beautiful Irene Adler’s luscious black curls. “Would the healing potion liked to be used?”

He continued walking, and looked over at John Watson. John bit his lower lip. Looked at Irene Adler. Looked back at Victor Trevor. And then gave Victor Trevor a thumbs – down. He did not want to save the beautiful Irene Adler from vicious werewolves.

“The Witch still has their poison – which they can choose to use to kill any remaining villager, in hopes of killing a werewolf. Would the Witch like to use the poison?”

Victor Trevor glanced towards John Watson, and received another thumbs – down. He did not want to use the poison yet.

“The Witch falls back asleep.” Victor Trevor grinned and held his hands together in front of him as he came to stand in the middle of the room again.

“The sun rises.”


	6. Just Because Cupid Sets Hearts In Pairs Doesn’t Mean Cupid Can Save Them

The villagers stood around the second werewolf massacre. Irene Adler’s body lay on the doorstep of her house, heart torn out of her chest. Little rose petals lay littered around the doormat – the remnants of an acting Cupid.

“May she rest in piece.” Philip Anderson said quietly, bowing his head and crossing himself. “And may any lovers she granted passion to not have to suffer the same fate.”

Sherlock Holmes rolled his eyes.

“Something has to be done about this!” Mary Morstan called out, anger flushing across her cheeks. “We can’t keep allowing people to be picked off like sacrificial lambs!”

“What do you suggest then?” Sheriff Greg Lestrade asked.

“Shouldn’t you be the one coming up with suggestions?” Sarah asked angrily, her arms crossed in front of her. “You’re supposed to be in charge of the rest of us!”

“Honestly, what did you except?” Sherlock scoffed. “Lestrade is nothing but average.”

“Sherlock,” John’s voice wavered warningly behind the taller bloke.

Sherlock shut his mouth.

The townsfolk descended into their own chatter. Harry Watson tapped Molly Hooper on the side, and whispered into her ear. Molly whispered into Mary Morstan’s ear.

“I would like to know where Clara was last night.” Mary voiced and looked over at the younger girl.

“Excuse me?” Clara gasped. “I was home with Harry, obviously!”

“Yeah, she was!” Harry agreed, jumping to her girlfriend’s side. Suddenly, her face dropped, and she looked at Clara. “I did… I did wake up in the middle of the night though. When I heard the wolves howling – I’m sure everyone heard them howling.”

Nods surfed through the crowd.

“And you weren’t in bed.”

Murmurs swept through the crowd. Was Clara a werewolf?

“I was going pee!” Clara shouted to have herself heard. “It’s a natural thing to do in the middle of the night!”

“Maybe you’re bluffing.”

“Sounds like something a werewolf would say!”

“That’s the sorriest excuse of an alibi I’ve ever heard!”

“Well, well what about him!” Clara pointed directly at James Moriarty. “He’s a fucking creep – why doesn’t anyone suspect him of being a werewolf!”

“Because _I_ sleep with Jim,” Sebastian Moran stood in front of the shorter Irishman. “And I can guarantee that he was in his bed all night.”

“Come on Moran,” Mary Morstan laughed. “When you fall asleep, not even an atomic bomb could wake you up! It would be easy for Moriarty to leave your house once he was asleep!”

“That makes bloody good sense!”

“Seb does sleep that deeply! I’ve ripped a chainsaw outside his window before, and he’s slept through it!”

“And Moriarty is really creepy.”

“No.” Sherlock stated firmly. “Moriarty isn’t a werewolf.”

“And how do you know?” Anderson called out.

“Because I trust Moran’s sense of judgement, and so should you.” Sherlock snapped. “Meanwhile, Clara’s argument is less solid, and she is more reason to be suspect. If we’re killing anyone today, it should be her.”

A murmur went through the crowd, debating on choosing between Clara and Moriarty. The noise was brought to an end by a raised hand.

“Is everyone reading to vote then?” Sheriff Greg Lestrade asked.

The suggestion went over well with the crowd.

“On the count of three, point to the person you wish to vote for.”

“One.”

“Two.”

“Three!”

Anthea pointed to Sherlock.

Sally pointed to Sherlock.

Moriarty pointed to Clara.

Clara pointed to Sherlock.

Harry pointed to Clara.

Moran pointed to Clara.

John pointed to Moriarty.

Sherlock pointed to Clara.

Greg pointed to Clara.

Anderson pointed to Moriarty.

Mrs. Hudson pointed to Sarah.

Molly pointed to Clara.

Mary pointed to Clara.

Sarah pointed to John.

With eight votes (seven votes, but Sheriff Greg Lestrade’s counts as two) all counted towards Clara, Sheriff Lestrade took a gun from its hoister, drew it and fired it once into her chest.

Clara snarled in anger and falls back. She collapsed to the ground, dust kicking up around her body. Green blood gushed out of her chest.

A cheer went around the villagers. A werewolf was killed! That meant they were one step closer to ridding their village of the dreaded threat! They hugged each other and celebrated.

The sun began to set in the sky, and it was coming time for everyone to –

“I need to use the bathroom.”


	7. In Which Pairs of Lovers Can Cause Difficulties for Other Fruits

Everyone groaned.

“Piss off.” James Moriarty muttered as he pushed his way to his feet. He leaned down and pressed his lips tight against Moran’s lips.

“Sherlock,” Moriarty uttered as he pulled himself back to standing. “Mind showing me the loo?”

Sherlock nodded his head and pushed himself to his feet, before straightening his lapels. “This way.”

Sherlock and Moriarty break away from the group and walked down the halls, leaving the noise of the party behind them.

“Here.” Sherlock muttered, pointing towards the open white door for Moriarty.

“And Moriarty,”

James Moriarty only had one second to look over at Sherlock before the detective grabbed him by the shoulders and pushed him against the wall. The noses of their faces nearly touched.

Moriarty lifted an eyebrow. “I didn’t realize you were so interested in me Sherlock. I’m sure Sebby wouldn’t mind if you wanted a quick – ”

“Shut up.” Sherlock snapped. “I just wanted to let you know that just because we’re lovers in this game, don’t get any ideas about real life.”

“You’re the only one who’s made any moves, love.” Moriarty winked at Sherlock. “Besides, you haven’t anyone else.”

Sherlock’s jaw clenched.

There was a moment of silence. Down the hall, glasses could be heard clinking. Someone laughed. It was airy and light and it got sucked away in Sherlock’s eyes.

Moriarty’s gaze softened. “Sorry.” He muttered. Quickly, he leaned up and kissed Sherlock on the cheek, and then shut the bathroom door.

Sherlock returned to the group, and his eyes couldn’t help but linger on John Watson’s fingers resting on Mary Morstan’s thigh.


	8. In Which Another Identity is Saved But A Life Is Not

“Everyone ready to continue then?” Victor Trevor asked when James Moriarty returned from the bathroom and re-joined his spot with Sebastian Moran.

“Where’s Janine and Irene?” Sarah spoke up, twisting her body around to try and spot the two of them.

“Unfortunately, they had to go home.” Victor shrugged. “They thought since they were out of the game, they might as well go home, since it’s starting to get late.”

Harry snorted. “When has eleven at night ever been considered late?”

“When you have to wake up at six in the morning for work the next day?” Sarah responded, shaking her head. “I’ll probably leave as soon as I get out of the game too.”

There were a couple muttered responses about how that was no mindset to go into the game with, but they were silenced when Victor Trevor raised his hand.

“A cold wind blows, and the rise of the full moon sets all the villagers of Millers Hollow to sleep.” Victor Trevor clasped his hands together as he stood in the middle of the room, and watched everyone bow their heads and close their eyes to mimic sleep.

“The werewolves awaken, and greet each other. After having lost one member of their own, the werewolves plot to kill another villager to extract their revenge.”

Victor Trevor paused, waiting for the deliberation of the werewolf characters.

“Werewolves, go back to sleep.”

“Fortune Teller, open your eyes.”

Harry Watson’s eyes fluttered open. She lifted her head and locked eyes with Victor Trevor. She understood how the process worked now.

Victor Trevor began to walk around the room in a slow circle. “The Fortune Teller retreats to the secret alcove of their house, and finds the blue orb which they may learn the true identity of one of the remaining thirteen villagers.”

He looked towards Harry, continuing to sweep the room in an effort to disguise whom he wanted to direct his words towards.

Harry Watson considered. She knew that John was innocent – and Clara was already out of the game, as she had been outed as a werewolf. She glanced over at her girlfriend. Since players who were out of the game could watch the midnight process. Clara simply shook her head and rolled her eyes – couldn’t believe that she had gotten out of the game because of her girlfriend.

Harry Watson stretched out an arm, pointing towards Sherlock Holmes.

Victor Trevor shook his head in response, confirming Sherlock’s identity as a human.

“After consulting with their magical orb, the Fortune Teller returns to their bed, and falls asleep again.” Victor Trevor speaks with his head held high, broadcasting his voice to the rest of the room.

“The nights chill next awakens the Witch.” Victor Trevor smiled, clasping his hands behind his back as he continues to sweep the room. “Witch, please open your eyes.”

John Watson’s eyes opened. He looked up and locked eyes with Victor Trevor. Victor nodded.

“In front of the Witch’s eyes, they see the visage of the poor soul to be destroyed by werewolves that night.” As Victor Walks, he momentarily held his hand above Mary Morstan’s golden locks. “Would the healing potion liked to be used?”

He continued walking, and looked over at John Watson. John bit his lower lip. Looked at his wife. Looked back at Victor Trevor. And then gave Victor Trevor a thumbs – down.

“The Witch still has their poison – which they can choose to use to kill any remaining villager, in hopes of killing a werewolf. Would the Witch like to use the poison?”

Victor Trevor glanced towards John Watson, and received thumbs – up. Then John Watson pointed to Sebastian Moran.

“The Witch falls back asleep.” Victor Trevor grinned and held his hands together in front of him as he came to stand in the middle of the room again. It was going to be a hectic morning.

“The sun rises.”


	9. In Which A Massacre Greatly Thins Out The Numbers Playing Games in Millers Hollow

The villagers of Miller’s Hollow crowded around the body of Mary Morstan, her red blood running into the sands of the streets. Sheriff Greg Lestrade got everyone to turn away from the body.

“How many more of us have to die before we get the last of the werewolves?” Molly whispered, holding herself tightly.

“Well, there are twelve of us standing here.” Sebastian Moran mused. “That means three of us are werewolves.”

“You’re telling me,” Mrs. Hudson finally spoke up, after having been quiet for most of the last few days. “That’s a quarter of our friends here are out to kill us.”

Sebastian nodded.

Suddenly, Sebastian Moran froze. His body seemed to seize, and blood leaked out of his nose.

“He’s been poisoned!” James Moriarty shouted out, looking fearfully over his boyfriend, fingers gripped his arms as blood trickled over Moran’s lips.

“Fuck…this,” Moran gasped out, spitting blood. “If I’m going down, I’m taking one of you sons of bitches down with me!”

Sebastian Moran pulled a gun from his waistcoat, and a number of the villagers screamed. Before anyone could really react to the threat in a way that would save anyone – Moran pointed the gun, and fired it.

Sebastian Moran fell to the ground after his final act, his eyes gone stone cold as red blood drizzled from the holes of his face.

The Hunter of Millers Hollow was dead.

Sherlock Holmes gasped.

Everyone turned to face the tall, curly haired man. His hands were clutched at his chest, and red blood spilled past his fingertips.

“Fuck.” James Moriarty uttered. He ran to Sherlock, and caught the detective as he fell to the ground. John Watson was also by Sherlock’s side in a matter of seconds.

Sherlock coughed, and blood spluttered from his lips.

“No, Sherlock, Sherlock, you can’t die!” Moriarty muttered, fingers squeezing the other man’s arm.

“What do you care Moriarty?” John threw a withering gaze.

“Because Sherlock and I are lovers!” James Moriarty shouted.

A couple female faces of the villagers paled significantly. John Watson stared with an open mouth.

Moriarty turned back to Sherlock, and Sherlock looked at Moriarty. Sherlock saw how Moriarty’s eyes twinkled with the game and the fun, even though he knew the next steps he would have to take.

James Moriarty leaned down and kissed Sherlock’s bloody lips in front of everyone. When he pulled away, Sherlock’s eyes were glazed, and air had stopped passing from his lips. He was dead.

Silence fell. And Moriarty laughed. He cackled, and snorted, and threw his head back with the deep belly guffaw.

Then suddenly Moriarty has a gun in his hand, and before anyone could scream, Moriarty had the revolver in his mouth, and a gunshot went off, and green blood splashed away from him as his body fell next to Sherlock’s. Red and green blood started to pool together in the sand.

Leaving nine villagers standing around four dead bodies.

“Fuck.” Sarah Sawyer muttered, crossing herself.

“At least one more of the werewolves are gone.” Sally muttered under her breath.

Most people nod.

“But there are still two more werewolves in our midst.” Sheriff Greg Lestrade said, taking in a deep breath. Around them, the air is still, heavy with the knowledge that they stand in the middle of a battlefield. “So we still need to vote on one more person to kill today.”

The sun was starting to get lower and lower in the sky, and everyone looked around at each other. Faces were pale, and drawn from the blood and death of the day.

“I volunteer.” Sarah speaks up, stepping forward. “You need someone to kill, I volunteer myself.”

“Sarah, the point of this is to kill people we think are werewolves.” Molly Hooper lays an arm on the other woman’s shoulder. “And quite frankly, we have no reason to suspect you.”

“Then who do we suspect, huh?” Sarah Sawyer shrugs her shoulders, animated. “You? Molly? You’re too sweet to hurt a fly.”

“Or what about Mrs. Hudson?” Sarah points to the older lady. “Who never moves without complaining about her hip.”

“Everyone who has died so far has been capable of possibly being a werewolf.” Sarah folds her arms across her chest. “Those of us that remain… it could literally be any of us. Because we’re all built of the same fold of character. So why not kill me? It makes all of your lives easier.”

“Yeah, but you volunteering so easily makes me think you’re not a werewolf.” Anderson offered his opinion quietly.

“So how about,” Sally said. “We do what we did on Day One. Just start the vote and whatever happens, happens, no discussion.”

A murmur went through the crowd. Most people seemed fine with the suggestion.

“On the count of three, point to the person you wish to vote for.”

“One.”

“Two.”

“Three!”

Anthea pointed to Sarah.

Sally pointed to Sarah.

Harry pointed to Anderson.

John pointed to Mrs. Hudson.

Greg pointed to Sally.

Anderson pointed to Mrs. Hudson.

Mrs. Hudson pointed to Anderson.

Molly pointed to Anthea.

Sarah pointed to Anthea.

Everyone looked around, and counted the pointed hands. Two hands for Sarah. Two hands for Anderson. Two hands for Anthea. One hand for Sally, but it’s the Sheriff’s hand, so it counted two hands. Two hands for Mrs. Hudson.

“It’s a tie.”


	10. In Which A Trust Exercise Must Be Exercised

“What happens now?” Molly Hooper asked, and Victor Trevor rose to his feet.

“So, because there was a tie in the votes, we’re going to do something called the trust exercise. Everyone that is still alive, please stand up.”

Together, Anthea, Sally, Harry, John, Greg, Mrs. Hudson, Molly and Sarah all come to a stand.

“Now, we’ll start with the person on my left, since I’m the moderator.” Victor Trevor pointed to the lovely Sarah Sawyer. “Sarah, you will point to one of the people standing, and say that you trust them. Then, they will get to sit down. They will be safe for this round.”

“Once that person has been seated, they will point to someone else and say that they trust them, and that person will get to sit, and so on and so on, until there is only one person left. Then that person will be the one to die for this round.”

“Understood?” Everyone nods.

“Sarah, if you will begin.”

Sarah Sawyer looked around the room. She pointed to Molly Hooper. “I trust you.”

Molly took her seat again, looking grateful. She pointed to Greg Lestrade. “I trust you.”

Greg Lestrade points to John Watson. “I trust you.”

John Watson points to his sister. “I trust you.”

Marry Watson points to Sally Donovan. “I trust you.”

Sally Donovan points to Mrs. Hudson. “I trust you.”

Mrs. Hudson sits down, and looks between the last two standing people. Philip Anderson, and Anthea. “Oh dear,” She muttered, before pointing to the woman still texting madly on her phone. “I trust you.”

Anderson groaned where he stood. He pulled out his card and showed it to the group. “Well you all suck, because you just killed another villager.”

He put the villager card down on the table, and then stormed off to the kitchen to get some food.

Victor Trevor smiled.

“Today we went from thirteen villagers, to eight. We lost good people – Mary Morstan, our hunter Sebastian Moran, Sherlock Holmes, and Philip Anderson. But we also managed to kill a werewolf – James Moriarty. Which means, of the eight of you left, only two are werewolves.”

“Remember villagers,” Victor Trevor warned, his voice ominous and lifting the hairs on the back of people’s necks. “The lovers are gone. The Hunter is dead. The Witch’s poison has been used. Only one healing potion remains. Which means, that if you loose four more villagers, you loose the game.”


	11. In Which Eight Remain Standing And Seven Remain In Their Seats Because Two Left The Party Early

“Fortune Teller. Open your eyes.”

Harry Watson opened her eyes. Who’s identity would she learn? So far, everyone she knew the identity of was dead – except for her brother.

She suspected that Sarah was innocent. But if Sarah wasn’t innocent, then her and Molly would be the last two werewolves, since they’ve stuck up for each other so much.

Mrs. Hudson had been so quiet during the game; Harry didn’t know what to think about her. The same went for Anthea – who still managed to text on her phone even though her eyes were closed.

That left Sally, and Greg.

Harry Watson pointed to Sally Donovan.

Victor Trevor nodded at her.

“The Fortune Teller falls back into a deep sleep. And the Witch awakens.”

John Watson opened his eyes.

“As the Witch has used their poison already, they only have one healing potion remaining.” Victor Trevor walked around the room, and pointed towards Greg Lestrade.

“Would the Witch like to save the upcoming Werewolf victim?”

Victor Trevor glanced at John Watson, who gave him a thumbs-up.

“The Witch falls asleep.”

John Watson bowed his head and closed his eyes. Victor Trevor opened his mouth to speak, and paused, catching Sherlock Holmes staring at John Watson. Mary Morstan doesn’t notice, as she was over in the kitchen, eating snacks. It made Victor Trevor grimace.

“The sun rises upon Millers Hollow. The villagers awaken, and earnestly check all the remaining villagers to see who has died upon the night. They all rejoice when they learn that everyone has survived the night.” 


	12. In Which Those With Knowledge Try to Divulge It Without Exposing Themselves as Knowledgeable

“Alright, alright, everyone calm down!” Sheriff Greg Lestrade called out to the other seven villagers around them. “Now, we can all be thankful that the werewolves didn’t manage to kill anyone last night, but we still have to decide who we’re going to kill today – there are two werewolves left in our midst.”

Molly Hooper raised her hand after Harry leaned away from her. “What about Sally?”

“What about me?” Sally Donovan asked, crossing her arms over her chest. “I’m no werewolf.”

“Well I’m not a werewolf,” Sarah called out. “But you and Anthea both wanted me gone last time. Maybe the two of you are werewolves.”

“But you and Molly voted for me,” Anthea spoke up, probably for the first time – which caused more than one other person in the crowd to start. “So maybe you and Molly are the werewolves.”

“No, I’m fairly certain that Sally is a werewolf.” Molly said.

“Well what about everyone else here?” Sally asked. “What about Harry? Or John? Or Greg?”

“I’m not a werewolf!” Harry and John responded in sync.

“And I’m fairly certain that Greg wouldn’t be a werewolf!” John threw his hand in the Sheriff’s direction. “We elected him to be our Sheriff for goodness sake! If he were a werewolf, why would he take that job?”

“Because the Sheriff gets two votes?” Sally replied, crossing her arms over her chest.

“Why don’t we go our vote now then?”

Everyone nodded, glancing over at the people they knew they were going to vote for.

“On the count of three, point to the person you wish to vote for.”

“One.”

“Two.”

“Three!”

Anthea pointed to Sarah.

Sally pointed to Sarah.

Harry pointed to Sally.

John pointed to Sally.

Greg pointed to Anthea.

Mrs. Hudson pointed to Anthea.

Molly pointed to Sally.

Sarah pointed to Sally.

With four votes all counted towards Sally, Sheriff Lestrade took a gun from its hoister, drew it and fired it once into her chest.

Sally gasped, and fell to the ground. Green blood oozed out of her chest, and a cheer went up amoung the other villagers. They had killed another werewolf! That meant there was only one werewolf left! They could do this!

“Alright everyone,” Sheriff Greg Lestrade smiled. “It’s getting late. Everyone return to your homes and remember to lock your doors.”

The villagers all turned around and departed, going back to their homes as the sun sets beyond the valley.


End file.
